


Casual Dress

by Asynca



Series: Ready, Set, Go! - Speed Prompts [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm obsessed with the idea of Mercy and Pharah getting to know each other outside work. Mercy's POV. Speed prompt, written in 51 minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casual Dress

 

* * *

I double-checked the room number, spent a few seconds worrying I was intruding on my surly teammate, and reminded myself that I was _thirty-seven_ , for crying out loud, and if I couldn't take risks now, when did I plan to take them? Reaching out, I knocked on the motel door.

It wasn't as if I expected Pharah to answer the door in her full rocket suit, but even though I'd prepared myself for 'different', I hadn't prepared myself for _how_ different. The woman who answered looked almost unrecognisable. She had the same pretty face and stoic express that I remembered—and importantly, the same Eye of Horus tattoo—but that was where the similarities ended. 'Fareeha' looked so different than 'Pharah'. Different, and much younger in her cargos and loose sweatshirt.

I found my eyes straying down her body; I _did_ recognise those muscles, though.

She was also looking up and down mine. "I'm underdressed," she said shortly, and then looked worried. That insecurity, I also recognised.

God, did _everything_ this woman did need to be so damn endearing? We were in the middle of _nowhere_ on Route 66, it hardly mattered what anyone wore! I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, don't mind me," I told her about my cream-coloured dress and heels. "I spend half the year in makeshift hospitals in the middle of nowhere, I'll take any opportunity to dress up."

I didn't appear to have set her mind at ease. "I have a shirt. Should I put it on?"

I couldn't hide my smile. "To eat in a _highway diner_?" She was _completely serious_ , so I smothered it. "Well, I suppose if you like…?"

Phar— _Fareeha_ , I corrected myself, walked back into her room and quite unceremoniously just whipped her sweatshirt off as she approached her closet. It was a bit of a shock, actually. I suppose I _had_ seen quite a lot of her while I was patching her up, but it was one thing to see someone in their underwear on your examining table, and quite another to be wearing a nice dress when they start taking off theirs. It was silly of me, though, because she was wearing a _very_ modest sports bra and it was entirely appropriate to be wearing in front of someone else.

It was just that my thoughts about her in it were _not_ entirely appropriate. That was especially the case given that she was essentially my patient, and I was having most un-doctor-like ideas about those biceps and abs. She was _truly_ a fine specimen of a soldier, and I was truly a bad, bad doctor who was apparently en route to getting her licence revoked. Oh, dear.

"Is this better?" she asked me, holding a white shirt in front of her as she faced me.

To be honest, I'd much rather she just left it off. I couldn't say that, though. "I don't mind what you wear."

She clearly minded, though, because she put it on, buttoned it up, and then smoothed her hair down and looked far less worried. "Alright," she said, more relaxed as she returned to where I was waiting for her in the doorway. She gave me another once over, and then I got a rare smile out of her. "You look different."

I laughed again. "You mean without my wings?" She nodded. "Honestly, I feel a bit naked without them. Especially right after I take my suit off."

Another smile. "Me too," she confessed. "Sometimes I forget I can't just jet over those houses to get the supermarket, or soar above traffic jams—I have to walk like everyone else."

That was probably the longest sentence I'd ever got out of her, and all I could say was: God, her accent, I _loved_ it. I wondered what she thought of mine. "I understand _completely_! I see someone hobbling painfully down the street, and I always think, 'If I just had my rod with me…'."

"…you'd cure everyone?" The admiration in her eyes was intoxicating. "I'm sure you'll find a way one day."

I hoped so. "Thank you. My research _is_ promising."

We stood in the doorway of her room, smiling at each other for a moment. She looked away first, cheeks a little pink.

_I hope that means what I think it means_ , I found myself wishing. Even if it didn't, everything she did was just so painfully endearing she was going to be the death of me anyway. Why did I always fall _so_ hard for soldiers? "So," I said, trying to force my thoughts about those lean forearms and strong hands out of my mind. "Shall we go have a bite to eat?"

I half-expected her to offer her arm to me—she had the boyish swagger of her fellow army-mates, it wouldn't have been out of place—but she was a little too stiff and self-contained for that. "As long as you don't tell anyone how much I like American food," she told me with the slightest ever grin. It was hardly there but _still_ enough to finish me, and she made it worse by experimenting with my real name. _"...Angela."_

Oh, dear. As we walked down to the diner, I reflected that I was _really_ going to need to direct my research to finding a way to resurrect myself: because otherwise I was going to be in _real_ trouble every time this woman smiled at me.


End file.
